A New Life
by Bellarsam Chrisjulittle
Summary: Inspired by the song "A New Life," from the musical of Jekyll&Hyde, sung by Linda Eder. Please listen to it as Molly, and try to guess where this story will go. Post HLV, Series 3 spoilers. Small multi-chapter.
1. Chapter 1

_A new life – _

_What I wouldn't give to have a new life._

* * *

With a shriek that came very close to a gasp, Molly was pulled from her nightmare by the cheerful beeping of her mobile phone. It took Molly a few seconds to gather her bearings and take her reality into account. She was sitting at her desk in St. Bart's, which meant that she must have dozed off while doing paperwork.

Molly groaned and rubbed her eyes vigorously. This was the third time this week she had dozed off at work, and she hated herself for that. Molly had always prided herself on being nothing short of professional at work, and now she was falling asleep at her desk like the slacker student in class. "Getting bloody ridiculous," muttered Molly to herself, sorting out the paperwork she had fallen asleep on. "When is this going to just _stop_?" She pounded her fists on her desk before resting her head in her hands.

But before she could get too upset, Molly remembered what had woken her up. Looking at her mobile, she saw that she had a new text message. Praying to God that it wasn't from Sherlock, Molly unlocked her phone and read the message. Thankfully, it was from Mike Stamford, asking her to come up to his office before she left. She breathed a little easier at that; unlike some people, Molly knew that she had nothing to be nervous about if her boss wanted to see her.

Looking at the clock, Molly winced when she saw that there were only a few minutes left in her shift. In resignation, she put away her still unfinished paperwork, resolving to herself that it would be taken care of tomorrow. Rubbing her neck, which was stiff after sleeping in that uncomfortable position, Molly decided to make a visit to the restroom before going up to see Stamford.

Once inside, Molly splashed some cold water on her face and redid her customary ponytail. As she did, Molly examined her reflection in the mirror and sighed. One didn't need the deduction skills of a Holmes to see that Molly was not doing well: three pounds lost, pallid skin, dark circles under her eyes, and that wasn't the worst of it.

With fingers that still couldn't cease trembling completely, Molly touched the right side of her neck, where she could feel her pulse beating steadily. But Molly wasn't feeling for her pulse – she was touching the scar over her pulse point, which was three weeks old. The man who had given her that scar had held no traces of sweet Jim from IT, or the confident and insane Moriarty Sherlock and John had encountered before the fall. This man who had come upon Molly in the morgue had been even more insane and truly desperate. Thankfully, Sherlock and John had arrived soon after he did. Moriarty had used Molly's body as a shield in front of his, a large knife pressed to her neck, and somehow Sherlock and John managed to keep him talking until Mycroft's men arrived and ambushed him.

Molly had suffered no worse physical harm, and a good thing, too: the mental and emotional abuse had been worse, much worse. Three weeks later, she was no better off than she had been right after it happened.

Resolutely pushing those thoughts to the very back of her mind, remembering that she was going up to meet Stamford, Molly dried her face and took a few deep breaths before leaving the bathroom.

Stamford's office was just one floor up, close to the lab, so Molly didn't have a long distance to walk. She knocked before entering his office, finding the good man at his desk, smiling at her. "Hello, Molly. Quiet day today, eh?"

"I'd say so, yeah," replied Molly, glad that Stamford had not asked how she was doing. She hated being asked that question now, because she always had to answer in a lie.

"Have a seat," he said, and Molly sat in the chair opposite his desk. Stamford pulled out a spiral-bound folder that was quite familiar to Molly and handed it to her. "Today I received a call from the AFP. They would like to come to their conference in Cardiff next weekend, and give a presentation about the findings of this report you published a few months ago."

"Oh!" said Molly, pleasantly surprised by the news. Looking at the folder, she recognized the detailed article she had written about various poisons and drugs and how they can affect the decomposition process.

"So, what do you say?" asked Stamford, still smiling but with worry in his eyes. "I'm sure it would be nice to get out of the city for a while. But if you're not up for it, I'll tell them –"

"No, I am!" said Molly, genuinely smiling for the first time in three weeks. "I would love to go! You're right, a long weekend out of town is exactly what I need, especially since spring is finally upon us."

Stamford smiled, the worry leaving his eyes. "Excellent. I'll let them know, and they'll be in touch with you about the details very soon."

Molly got up and shook his hand. "Thanks, Mike, I'll look forward to it. See you tomorrow."

"Have a good night, Molly."

The young pathologist exited Stamford's office with a new energy in her steps. This would be the first time she had spoken, let alone gone to, one of these conferences since Sherlock's return from the dead. Her mind was already buzzing with excitement over the thought of this conference. Yes, it was for work not pleasure, and public speaking was something that terrified her, but Molly couldn't care less. This would be a welcome challenge, opportunity, and distraction from the high-functioning sociopath and the mentally insane psychopath in her life.

No matter that one was locked away forever and the other seemed to have cut her from his life: being in their lives had a price she didn't know she could pay anymore. Molly prayed that this conference would at least be the start of that debt ending for good.

* * *

_One thing I have learned as I go through life:_

_Nothing is for free along the way._


	2. Chapter 2

_A new start – _

_That's the thing I need to give me new heart._

* * *

The front door was opened by John Watson less than a minute after Molly first knocked. He greeted her with a smile and kiss on the cheek. "Hey, Molls, come on in," he said, stepping aside so she could do just that.

"Thanks, John," she said, smiling when he took her light spring coat for her. The spring scarf she kept wrapped around her neck, as she always did when seeing people out of work (at work it would just get in the way during post-mortems). It was not that Molly thought the scar made her ugly; she just didn't like those she loved looking at it and watch the sadness for her fill their eyes.

Mary then came into the front hall, looking radiant at nearly eight months pregnant. She greeted Molly with an equally radiant smile and enveloped her in a hug that Molly happily returned. Ever since the return of Moriarty, the Watsons had taken it upon themselves to really include Molly in their lives as a true friend, more so than they had before. Molly was very touched by this, and enjoyed getting to know them on a better level. And since Sherlock seemed to be doing the exact opposite as the Watsons…well, Molly was very grateful to the good couple for being there for her.

They all sat down to dinner and exchanged small talk for a while, starting with Mary's progressing pregnancy and ending with Molly's enjoyable weekend in Cardiff.

This brought her to the meat of the matter: why she had wanted to talk to them both.

"Out with it, Molly," said Mary eagerly. "Something happened down there, or else you wouldn't want to talk this much about it. Come on!"

"Well…" began Molly, torn between excitement over her news and nerves of one of the reaction it would inevitably get. "Have you ever heard of Dr. Louisa Carlisle?"

John's brow wrinkled for a moment in thought before saying, "Yeah, I've come across her name a couple of times in journals. She's from New Zealand, right?"

"Yes, she's a pathology professor at the UOC's medical school – that's the University of Otago in Christchurch. She was one of the star lecturers at the conference. She saw my presentation, liked it, and we had some great discussions over meals and things. Turns out she's been familiar with my work for a while…" Molly paused, having come to the meat of the matter now. "And, well…she made me an offer."

"What kind of offer?" asked Mary eagerly, leaning forward over the table. John looked just as eager for what news Molly was going to give.

Molly couldn't stop a small smile from appearing on her face. "I've been invited to teach two courses in forensic pathology at UOC the next academic semester, and I've accepted."

Mary gasped through her very big smile, clapping her hands in delight. John grinned as well and said, "That's fantastic, Molly!"

"Oh, my God, yes!" agreed Mary. "What an amazing opportunity! No one deserves it more than you."

"Thanks," said Molly, allowing her excitement to show in her smile. "I'm working everything out with Mike now; he says it won't be a problem getting me this leave of absence. Louisa wants me to come at the end of June so I'll have plenty of time to prepare and get to know everything."

It suddenly struck both John and Mary one of the factors of Molly's opportunity: she would move to literally the other side of the world. Molly saw it clearly on both of their faces, and she sighed. She knew exactly whom they'd end up talking about as a result.

"Wow," John finally said. "New Zealand, that's amazing. I've heard is absolutely amazing."

Molly and Mary exchanged amused smiles; it was no secret that John was an absolute sucker for _The Lord of the Rings _movies. "I'll be sure to take a hell of a lot of pictures for you guys."

"Well, I'm glad that you'll still be here when the baby is born," said Mary decisively. "Although I am _very _disappointed that we're losing our first-choice for a babysitter."

They all shared a chuckle at that before things lapsed into awkward silence. Molly, knowing exactly why the silence was awkward, heaved an exasperated sigh and said, "So, are either of you two going to mention the overbearing elephant in the room, or will I have to do it myself?"

Mary and John exchanged guilty looks, knowing they had been caught, but then John bravely took the challenge. He folded his hands on the table and leaned forward a bit, his dark gray eyes as firm as the voice he spoke in: "There's no point in denying that Sherlock's not going to like this, Molly. I can hear his hissy fit right now about refusing to work with any other pathologist because they won't work with him, but – if I may be blunt – tough shit for him. This is an amazing opportunity for you, Molly, a real adventure, and if you want to do it, don't you dare let him talk you out of it."

"Oh, don't you worry about that," replied Molly with a small smile. "I want this more than I've wanted anything in a very long time. There is nothing that man can say to me that will persuade me to turn it down."

The calm but steely determination in her voice impressed both Watsons; it also relieved them to no end. The last thing they wanted to happen was for her to turn this opportunity down because Sherlock had put her on a bad and unjustified guilt trip. Molly didn't deserve that at all.

"Well, don't let us make you turn it down, either," said Mary. "We'd never ask you to stay, but we can't deny that we'll miss you a lot."

Molly smiled and said, "I'll miss you guys a lot, too. But thankfully, there is such a thing as interweb communication, whether it be Skype or John's blog."

They shared a chuckle and then lapsed into silence for a while. Finally, John couldn't stop himself and asked, "So…when are you going to tell him?"

Molly gave a deep sigh and pushed around the leftover peas on her plate with her fork. She watched her progress, not liking what her answer had to be. "Well, if his brother hasn't informed him by now…I was hoping that you two could tell him."

She braved looking at their shocked faces, and really couldn't blame them. John spoke first, and thankfully his voice was gentle rather than annoyed. "Molly, this is _your _big news. I know telling him won't be like telling us, since he hates changes like this, but I know he'd be happy for you, even if he doesn't realize it."

Sadness filled Molly's doe brown eyes as she looked between the good doctor and his loyal wife, her head slowly shaking. "He hasn't sought me out at all since…well, since the return. He only comes to the morgue when he absolutely has to for a case, and he can't look at me without looking at my neck in disgust. And even before that happened, there are just…too many things that happened and too many reasons for me to not want anything to do with him right now. I know it's the coward's way not to confront him and tell him all of this myself…but I'm _tired_, guys, and I don't have the strength to seek him out when he can't even be alone with me anymore."

It relieved Molly to see the sad but necessary understanding cross the faces of John and Mary, relieved that they understood exactly what she meant when she said she was tired. There was really no other word that she could think of to describe how she felt when it came to Sherlock Holmes since he had come back.

Finally, Mary carefully got up from the table and walked to Molly, motioning for the pathologist to stand up. She did, and was soon enveloped in a strong and warm hug which radiated understanding and compassion. Molly felt like crying in relief, and hugged her back tightly.

Feeling a warm hand on her back, Molly turned slightly to see John standing with them. "I'll tell him tomorrow. I was planning on dropping by Baker Street anyway after work."

Molly closed her eyes as John gave her his own hug. "Thank you so much."

And she really meant it. Molly wanted this teaching opportunity in New Zealand very much, for it truly was both a big adventure and a fresh start. And the last thing she would let happen to stop that would be stupid Sherlock bloody Holmes.

* * *

_Half a chance in life to find a new part,_

_Just a simple role that I can play._


	3. Chapter 3

_A new hope…_

* * *

The following evening, Molly came back to her flat from St. Bart's wanting nothing more than a quiet evening to herself before falling into a deep and dreamless sleep. The shift she had worked had been a long and stressful one, thanks to a building collapse that had killed four people, one of whom was no older than thirteen. These kinds of shifts always left Molly feeling both physically and emotionally exhausted. Many parts of her body were sore (especially her back and feet), and her head was beginning to pound with the first throbs of a bad headache. The quiet sanctuary of her cozy little flat was exactly what Molly needed.

Unfortunately, Molly would soon find that this sanctuary had been disturbed by the last person she wanted to see at that moment.

Not until Molly had locked her front door and kicked off her shoes did she flip on the lights. When she did, the sight that met poor Molly's eyes caused her to jump on the spot and give a little yelp. None other than Sherlock Holmes was pacing silently and restlessly in her sitting room, still wearing his signature coat and scarf. He stopped upon hearing Molly react to his presence, and then swiftly made his way towards her. It wasn't until Sherlock had practically ripped the spring scarf from around her neck (causing Molly to let out a reactionary squeak rather than a yelp) that she noticed the positively stormy expression on his face – as well as the angry hurt in his eyes.

In addition to the pitiful squeak, Molly's hands went up to her neck in reaction to Sherlock none-to-gracefully removing her scarf. But then Sherlock surprised her by immediately taking her hands and lowering them to her sides. The words that then came out of the consulting detective's mouth were what surprised Molly the most.

"Your scar in no way makes you repulsive in my eyes."

In her shock, from finding him here to his actions with her scarf and now the last words she expected to hear from him, all Molly could manage to articulate in reaction was a small and very confusing, "W-w-what?"

"John said that you told him I couldn't look at you anymore without looking at your neck in disgust. While I hate that you were given that scar by that psychopath, in no way does it make you less than lov– less pleasant to look at."

His words, spoken in that deep voice with barely any of the cold façade he usually took so much trouble to always keep on, brought Molly back to reality somewhat. The pain and exhaustion in her body from her long shift made themselves known again as a result. Looking down, Molly saw that Sherlock still had a grip on both of her hands. Once upon a time, this action would have given her enough happiness to last for months; now she could only wonder in her tired heart why his hold on her – both figuratively and now literally – had to be so tight.

Taking a deep breath, Molly tugged her hands free and rubbed them together as she looked back up at him. "I didn't mean it like that."

"Then how _did _you mean it?" asked Sherlock petulantly, like a child denied his favorite toy.

The pounding in her head became more insistent, and Molly kneaded her fingers over her forehead as she walked around him and towards her kitchen. _Damn my stupid long shift for making me forget John was telling him today. I should have expected this, but oh no, that would be too easy._ In a forcibly calm voice, she clarified in answer to his question: "I meant disgust at remembering what had happened, not disgust at the sight of me."

It didn't surprise Molly at all that Sherlock followed her into the kitchen. "Of course, how obvious," he hissed more to himself than to her. "I swear, sometimes John is as bad as Anderson."

Hearing this, one of Molly's already fragile nerves snapped. She turned around, slammed her palms down onto the kitchen table, and faced Sherlock with as strong a glare as she could manage with her throbbing head. "Sherlock, _shut up,_" she ordered in a quiet, no-room-for-bullshit tone. He obeyed, thankfully, and she continued. "I know why you are here, but take a good look at me and deduce the kind of work day I've had. So, either go back into the sitting room to wait while I take care of myself, or leave now and come back at another time."

Molly stood her ground, watching as he quickly deduced her long shift and various aches and pains from her person. His expression, while still quite stormy, became a cross between annoyance and…was it embarrassment or guilt? Then, without a word, Sherlock left the kitchen (managing to both stomp and drag his feet in a double act of complaint). Molly hoped that he would leave the flat altogether, but gave a heavy sigh when she heard him throw his body onto the sofa.

Knowing that the only thing she could do now was prepare herself for the inevitable confrontation, Molly Hooper rubbed her temples and prayed a silent plea that her ironclad resolve remained as firm as ever.

_What won't kill it will only make it stronger…and Sherlock is _not _going to kill it._

* * *

Molly took her time before joining Sherlock in the sitting room, not to spite him but to get herself as ready as possible for the inevitable arguments and protests that Sherlock was going to initiate. After taking three aspirin for her head, Molly filled up her kettle and put it on the stove to boil. She also heated up some leftovers for a quick dinner, having not eaten since her fifteen minute lunch break. Asking Sherlock if he would like anything to eat never crossed Molly's mind (sometimes she could swear that man got all of the nourishment he needed from air), but she did fill a second mug for him when the tea was done brewing (_An uninvited guest, but a guest nonetheless_).

The young woman took a few deep breaths before exiting the temporary sanctuary of her kitchen and entering the temporary battlefield of her sitting room. The consulting detective was still occupying her entire sofa, lying on his back with his hands steepled beneath his chin. He seemed the perfect picture of calm, but Molly had the blessing and curse of being able to _see _him. She could see the toes of his right foot tapping against the armrest, silently as a mouse but as fast as a woodpecker.

Biting the inside of her cheek, Molly set his mug of tea down on the coffee table with more force than necessary in order to pull him out of his mind palace. It did the trick, and Sherlock immediately sat up and looked at her. After watching Molly take a seat in her comfy overstuffed armchair that she always read in, Sherlock picked up his mug of tea, knowing that she had fixed it just the way he liked it.

For the next five minutes, the detective and the pathologist drank their tea in a silence which was anything but relaxed. Both of them knew what was about to happen, and both had a completely different outcome in mind which they were determined to make happen. Though Sherlock drank his hot tea at a reasonably slow pace, the toes of his right foot were now tapping minutely on her carpet rather than her couch's armrest. Molly herself was relieved that she felt none of the anxiousness she could clearly see in her uninvited guest. Perhaps she felt that sure of herself, or perhaps she was just too tired, both from her shift and just with him, to work herself up. Molly didn't care which it was, frankly, so she just sipped her tea and waited patiently for Sherlock to give into his impatience.

He didn't let her down when he looked at her calm expression and gave a violent scowl before downing the rest of his tea in one gulp (and burning his tongue in the process) and getting up to pace again. Then he stopped, faced her and said, "You can't go."

Molly couldn't help it: she snorted in laughter and covered her mouth. _That's the best he can do? Really? Most brilliant man in London my arse._

Sherlock clearly read her thoughts on her face and from her barely suppressed laughter, and his irritation grew. "This isn't funny!" he snapped petulantly.

Molly laughed harder. "The hell it's not! You really think you can make me change my mind by speaking to me like a stubborn child? If _anybody _is the stubborn child in this scenario, it's you. You're just upset that my leaving will complicate your life by having to force yourself to cooperate with others for the access you need at Bart's. Poor you, the great Sherlock Holmes will have to put some manners to use."

"That is _not_ the reason you shouldn't go!" Sherlock practically whined. Molly quieted down and just raised an eyebrow at him. Sherlock shifted on his feet and grumbled, "Well…not the _only _reason, I mean."

Molly sighed and set her mug down on the coffee table before settling more comfortably in her chair, knowing the battle was going to get ugly. "Let's hear the other reasons, then. Quickly, please, I'd like to get some sleep."

Sherlock stood still now, on his feet facing her and staring at her hard. He stepped as close as he could get to Molly with the coffee table between them, and leaned down a bit towards her. Once this would have made Molly feel utterly exposed and reduced her to a stuttering, blushing blob melted on the floor…that girl was long gone now.

"You're angry with me," he stated simply.

This fact stated by him caused all of the humor Molly had felt moments ago to turn cold and grow sour in her. "Yes," she replied as simply back.

Sherlock stared hard at her for another moment before straightening up with a frustrated scowl and a roll of his eyes. "How many times must I tell everybody _it was for a case_?! It was essential to create the image of myself in Magnussen's mind as a drug addict not to be taken seriously!"

Molly's mouth twisted into a sour pout. "There is no better actor than you, Sherlock. You know perfectly well that you could have done everything except actually shoot up and still get away with the deception."

A pout crossed Sherlock's face for a moment, and Molly knew that, however much he didn't want to, he knew she was right. "There's more," he finally said, their gazes still locked. "After nearly four months, there must be something else fueling your anger."

"Brilliant deduction, Shag-A-Lot Holmes," was Molly's clipped and cool reply.

Surprise flashed across Sherlock's aquamarine irises before he straightened up with an exasperated huff. "_Really_, Molly? _That? _My relationship with and deception of Janine had absolutely nothing to do with you, and it was the only way I could have gained access to Magnussen. And believe me, our relationship was nowhere near as…graphic or exciting as her tabloid stories made it out to be."

For a few moments, Molly just looked at him in complete sadness and disappointment before quietly stating:

"You used her to get to Magnussen the same way Moriarty used me to get to you."

That was more than enough for Sherlock's façade to crack, and there was no mistaking the terrified shock he felt upon hearing that name and understanding what she was saying. He literally stepped back from her in that state before he managed to gather himself. There was fire in his eyes and his jaw was clenched when he replied: "It is _not _the same thing. Moriarty never needed you in order to get to me. He only wanted to mock me by getting so close to me without me realizing who he was, and you provided him with that opportunity – unwillingly, of course, but there you have it. I truly needed Janine in order to get close to Magnussen without hurting anybody. And just as you never became serious with Moriarty, I never slept with Janine even once. And just as you got your revenge on Moriarty by helping me cheat death, Janine got her revenge by making a fortune from fabricated stories of our sex lives and buying a cottage in Sussex Downs where she is now quite happy."

The only thing Sherlock didn't say in that thorough explanation – but was clearly written all over his face – was a plea for her to understand and forgive him for this. And she did, which she showed by slowly nodding. But the anger and disappointment remained firmly rooted in her eyes, and Sherlock saw it. Now he let out a cross between a groan and a growl soaking in frustration. "_What else, _Molly?! Is this revenge for the years I treated you as nothing more than a means to an end? I admit it, I did not behave in a way that John or my mother would approve of in the slightest, but I would like to think that I had at least _begun _to make up for that!"

Molly slowly shook her head in complete, awful shock. "Do you really not know, Sherlock?" The disappointment she felt was never louder in her quiet voice than it was in those six words.

"Well, there's always something I miss, Molly, so please enlighten me so we can clear this up once and for all," was Sherlock's irritated reply as he crossed his arms.

Molly now spoke in a heartbroken whisper. "You didn't even say goodbye."

For a moment, Sherlock looked completely confused. Then, when he saw a tear fall from each of Molly's doe brown eyes, the meaning of her words hit Sherlock harder than the bullet Mary had sent to his chest nearly four months ago. At least, that's what it looked like to Molly. A full minute at least must have passed before Sherlock finally got the ability to speak back, and even then, he could only say lamely: "The Watsons told you, then."

"No," replied Molly, using any strength she possessed to keep her voice from shaking. "Moriarty did." Sherlock didn't even attempt to hide the horror from his expression, but Molly continued. "When he cornered me in the lab, just after that broadcast, he explained in that mad way of his how he'd had to reveal himself much too early in order to prevent Sherlock from leaving the country permanently. When he saw I had no idea what he meant, that of course delighted him and he told me how you were being punished for killing Magnussen, another thing I didn't know about. Then you two arrived…" Molly unconsciously touched her scar, knowing she didn't need to retell how Sherlock and John just barely managed to keep Moriarty from slitting her throat before Mycroft's men had come and apprehended the madman. "John and Mary explained everything to me after they brought me home. Both of them wanted to strangle you for not telling me, but I talked them out of it, thinking you would explain it to me yourself…" Molly let her voice drift there, knowing he knew perfectly well how he had completely ignored her since that horrible day.

Sherlock now stood in the middle of her sitting room the opposite of the determined, stubborn and irritated man he had been when she found him in her flat. His posture was slumped, his head hung, and his hands hanging limply at his sides; he refused to meet her eyes now. Quite frankly, he looked like a child who had just been severely scolded by his mummy – and knew he much worse.

Once this would have made Molly feel unjustifiably guilty, but not now.

Molly got up from her chair and walked towards Sherlock, stopping when she was right in front of him. Being a foot shorter than him ensured that she could look into his eyes without lifting his hung head.

"After knowing you for seven years…after everything I've done for you, including risking my career and my life…after having to lie to and deceive those who love you…after realizing with you that I was someone who counted in your life…after always, _always_, being there for you…_How could you?_"

Sherlock had shut his eyes when Molly had approached him, and with each word she spoke she saw his eyes and jaw clench more tightly shut, as if he were trying to block her out again, just as he had been doing for weeks. Once she would have spoken to him angrily and slapped his exotic face…now her overflowing hurt and deep exhaustion just made her asked weakly, "Are you going to answer me or not?"

"I…can't." The words seemed to be dug from the deepest and most unused part of his throat. Still he wouldn't look at her.

Another tear fell down each cheek. "Can't or won't?" she said, the disappointment so palpable in her broken voice.

Sherlock finally opened his eyes and looked into hers, and she didn't need to see him shake his head to know that his answer was the same: _I can't. _"I'm sorry."

The sigh Molly gave would have broken her heart if it didn't already feel broken. She broke their gaze and walked to her front door. She opened it, standing to the side to his pathway out was clear. Looking completely defeated, Sherlock walked to his exit made clear. But Molly prevented him from passing her by gently taking his arm. His head turned to her quickly, and his eyes sparkled with…was it hope or fear? It was hard to tell.

"I am not cutting you out of my life, Sherlock," she said, her voice still quiet but very firm now. "I will still work with you and help on any cases you have before I leave, even experiments you want to conduct as long as they are reasonable and you behave yourself. Though I wish you could have warned me beforehand, I'm glad we were able to clear the air about at least _some _things…" Her hand lifted from his arm to his cheek. "Of all the times you've hurt me in the past, they are mere paper cuts to what you can't explain to me now…and if you can't offer an explanation, I can't accept an apology…I really hope you can give me one before I leave, because I _am _leaving, Sherlock." Her hand dropped and she turned her head away. "I'd like to sleep now, so good night."

He stood frozen for a moment, and Molly could feel how much he didn't want to leave, but she stood resilient in her exhaustion, betrayal, and deep heartbreak. The next moment he left without another word, for which she was grateful.

Molly went to sleep fifteen minutes later, after washing her face and changing into her night-shirt, her exhaustion and grief too strong to do anything less than give her the deep and dreamless sleep she wanted and needed when she came back to her flat not long ago.

* * *

…_Something to convince me to renew hope..._


	4. Chapter 4

_A new day…_

* * *

The sound of John's mobile giving off the song "Hello, Goodbye" by the Beatles, indicating an incoming call, brought both the doctor and his wife out of their slumber with huffs and groans. Looking at the digital alarm clock on the bedside table, John grimaced at the time: 3:53 AM. The only person he could think of who would call this early in the morning was –

_Sherlock!_

Fully awake now, John fully sat up and grabbed his mobile. Looking at the lit screen, John immediately got a sinking feeling in his stomach when he saw Mycroft's name instead of Sherlock's. He answered the call immediately.

"Mycroft, what is it? Has something happened to Sherlock? Is he – oh, God – is he alright?" All of the unanswered texts that John had sent Sherlock since seeing him that evening made John's stomach sink even lower. _I should have stayed longer, insisted I stay over, of course what he's learned might make the urge too strong, stupid, stupid, stupid!_

"Physically, he is absolutely fine and clean," replied Mycroft, and John leaned back against the bed's headboard in relief. "I've been keeping a close eye on him through my surveillance since you left him this evening to make sure he stayed that way. Predictably, he went to Miss Hooper's flat not long after your departure, waited until she came home from her shift, and they argued. She won sooner than I thought she would and gently threw him out before falling asleep."

In his rising anxiousness for his best friend, John also felt satisfaction and pride that Molly was holding her ground as firmly as she said that she would. John never doubted her strength for a moment, but if Molly Hooper had a weak spot, it would be the consulting detective…at least, that had once been the case.

Mycroft continued, breaking John's train of thought before it truly started. "My little brother has been pacing the city streets ever since, occasionally coming back to Baker Street but too restless to remain there for long. He finally settled down in one of his bolt-holes, and hasn't moved for about an hour. I believe he's ready to talk."

By this point, John was already out of bed and putting on the pair of jeans he had discarded just hours ago. "Which bolt-hole is it?"

"The clock face of Big Ben. Not one of his more popular hideouts, but it is isolated and high above his problems – in his mind, at least."

At this news, John couldn't help but feel a little impressed. So Mrs. Hudson had been right after all!

"A car will arrive at your residence to take you there in approximately five minutes. I will ensure that the security there give you guidance and full access. My apologies for waking you and Mrs. Watson at this hour, but I am the last person that Sherlock should speak to about…matters of the heart." The last four words were spoken with clear distaste.

John whole-heartedly agreed with Mycroft on that fact. "I'll be ready, Mycroft, thank you."

Both ended the call, and John sat on the edge of the bed to put on his trainers. Mary, who was mostly awake now, remained laying down with a hand over her swollen belly. "Go take care of him. I'd go with you, but aside from my condition, perhaps this is one of those times it needs to be man-to-man?"

John chuckled. "Yeah, I think so. Go back to sleep now." He kissed her head, and Mary was back asleep within minutes.

* * *

On the way to Sherlock, John reflected on two things: his conversation with Sherlock the previous evening, and how his best friend really felt about his pathologist.

After work, he had cycled straight to 221B Baker Street and had found Sherlock sitting in his armchair, idly plucking the strings of his violin. John knew that this meant his boredom was starting to grow, so he wasted little time with pleasantries and, after sitting down in his own armchair, told Sherlock what Molly asked him to tell Sherlock that she couldn't.

Going into it, John was fully prepared for Sherlock to throw a tantrum at the news that Molly would be moving to the other side of the world. He was fully prepared for Sherlock to go through four of the five stages of grief – the fifth he never expected to enter Sherlock's brilliant and stupid mind – from denial that Molly would ever do that to him, to anger that Molly would even contemplate doing that to him, immediately begin devising ways to get Molly to stay in London, and then either fall into a great sulk on his couch or immediately fly out the door to confront Molly himself.

None of these things happened. Sherlock took the news John relayed to him very calmly, asking questions for details occasionally which John answered to the best of his ability. If John didn't know him so well, he would say that Sherlock took the news remarkably well. But John could see the great flash of emotion that crossed across Sherlock's eyes when he heard how far away Molly would be moving; he saw how tightly Sherlock's jaw and hands holding his beloved violin tightened the more information he heard; he heard how artificial the indifference in Sherlock's tone was when he asked why Molly was not telling him this herself.

When John was finished, Sherlock had slowly risen from his armchair and walked to the window. Still holding his violin, Sherlock stood perfectly still, except for a small waving of his free hand that was a clear dismissal to John. The doctor left, knowing that it wouldn't be wise to push Sherlock until he was ready, but he left more worried for him than when he had arrived. All of the subsequent texts and calls he had made to the consulting detective went unanswered, and John could only hope now that Sherlock really was ready to talk, as Mycroft had said.

* * *

John, lost in his thoughts, barely paid attention to the journey on his way up to Sherlock. If he hadn't already been to so many extraordinary places thanks to Sherlock, including Buckingham Palace itself, John would have paid a bit more attention to the fact that he was about to be in the very face of Big Ben, but his mind was wholly focused on Sherlock and making sure he was alright.

After being driven to Parliament and taken up _many _stories in an old-fashioned elevator, John was escorted to a very secure looking door. "Don't do anything stupid," said the gruff-looking security guard who opened the door for him. John was going to ask him what he meant until he looked through the door and his question was answered for him. John found himself standing outside, on a thin horizontal strip of floor with a metal railing the only thing blocking him from a very long fall. The air was chilly, and the sounds of London's never-ending activity were almost peaceful at this height. The sky was a dark gray, indicating that sunrise was not far off. Looking up, he saw the massive hands of the world's most famous clock, and behind him bright white paneling that gave off a glow. _Wow, _thought John, as anybody would in that situation.

As the door closed, John spotted Sherlock not too far down the strip. He was sitting at the railing, his feet dangling over the edge, his forearms resting on the middle rail, and his forehead resting against the top one as he looked down at the city he considered his. Taking a deep breath, John walked up to Sherlock and took a seat beside him, mimicking Sherlock's position, and waited. If Sherlock was going to talk, he would talk when he wanted to. In the meantime, John had a great view to enjoy.

"She doesn't love me anymore, John."

The good doctor quickly turned his head to look at the consulting detective. The defeat and sadness were more than obvious in his slumped soldiers, tone of voice, and the profile of his face. In his shock at Sherlock's words, John turned to look back over the city. And then his shock gave way to a quiet but steady stream of chuckles that he just couldn't help. But before Sherlock could snap an affronted insult at his best friend, John spoke before he could.

"Sherlock, for a genius you can sometimes be remarkably stupid. Molly Hooper stop loving you? That's like saying the sun has started going around the earth instead of the other way around." Hearing no response from Sherlock, John looked at him only to see an expression of pure confusion on his face. Rolling his eyes, John shook his head and said, "Alright, bad simile. My point is that Molly Hooper couldn't stop loving you if she tried. I'm not saying that love can't change in size and nature, or that she can't feel any negative emotions for you too. I just mean that you will always have a place in Molly's heart."

John's tone was firm and calm, exactly what Sherlock needed to hear to begin to believe him. Deciding to dig a little deeper, John hardened his stare and said, "Besides, I would think that you would be happy at the thought of Molly not loving you anymore, since you called loving someone a…what was it…oh yes, a _human error_. Not as good as _a chemical defect found on the losing side_, but still makes the same point."

"SHUT UP, JOHN!" Sherlock practically screamed, letting his forehead fall on his forearms that still rested on the metal railings. In a voice so quiet John barely heard it through the breeze and distant London traffic, he heard Sherlock say, "I don't know what I believe anymore..."

John took pity on his friend and didn't reply. Both men sat on the cold metal against the cold railing in the cold spring air in silence again, watching London beginning to wake up as the sky became marginally lighter. Then, after a long while, Sherlock again broke the silence.

"She's always been there, John…for as long as I've known her…always ready to help me in any way she could…when I was gone, I knew without a shadow of a doubt that when I came back, she would be there…now she's leaving and it's my fault…I've broken her…"

John inhaled and exhaled deeply, struck by the hollow quality of Sherlock's deep voice. He sounded like a little boy hopelessly lost and having no idea of how to find his way home. John didn't know exactly what had been said between Sherlock and Molly, but he could guess. Deciding he would get an accurate report of that from Molly later, John wisely didn't ask Sherlock to retell it. Instead, he took a few minutes of looking at London to work out the best way to tell Sherlock what he should say, not just as a best friend but a good friend.

"Sherlock…you remember how I was when we first met, after I'd been invalided out of the army. I will never regret my time in uniform; the men I worked with and treated were among the best I've ever known. But the horrors of war…well, the wound in my shoulder was nothing compared to the other wounds it created."

The consulting detective muttered something to himself that sounded like, "_Like Molly's scar_…" but John couldn't be sure.

He continued: "But meeting you was the best cure for that. You know perfectly well that I am an adrenaline junkie, and you certainly provided an outlet for that right away. It certainly helped me move forwards and think of the past without wanting to shoot somebody. Look, Sherlock, my point is…sometimes, the only thing that can help a person move on from a terrible experience is to have a completely new one. Molly's been through a lot, none of which she deserved, but she _does _deserve this opportunity…and she needs it, too. So please, Sherlock, don't try to stop her anymore, and treat her how she should be treated before she goes so you at least part on good terms."

Sherlock listened to all this but said nothing in response. He just continued to stare dejectedly out at London, his chin resting on his forearms. John sighed and placed a hand firmly on Sherlock's shoulder.

"I'm not going anywhere, Sherlock. Neither is Mary, Lestrade, or Mrs. Hudson. And Molly isn't going to be away forever. Use this time while she's away to learn what she really, _really_ means to you so that when she comes back, you two can have a new start. A _better _start."

Silence followed as John waited for Sherlock to give a response, any indication that he had listened. It came when Sherlock turned his head, looked at John, and gave one firm nod.

Satisfied, John removed his hand and both of them looked out over London again, and watched the sun rise and day come in content silence.

* * *

It was late in the morning when Molly woke up, since she didn't have to work until the evening. Her sleep had been long, deep, dreamless, and had done her worlds of good. Feeling refreshed, Molly got out of bed and performed her morning routine softly humming a tune. Thinking about Sherlock's uninvited visit the previous night caused Molly no distress, only satisfaction of how she had held firm in her resolve and a touch of sadness that Sherlock couldn't explain his most hurtful action towards her. He hoped he would before she left, but that would probably be asking for too much. _I'll just have to take what I can get, _thought Molly, _as usual when it comes to that idiot._

As she was spreading marmalade on her toast, her mobile beeped with a text alert. Guessing it would be John or Mary, Molly was very surprised to see that it was from Sherlock:

_Molly, would you mind if I came to St. Bart's tonight and run some tests on some tissue samples I saved from the last murder victim whose case I only partially resolved? I know that you will be working from 6:00 PM to 6:00 AM, and I will be happy to bring you coffee – milk, no sugar – the three times you usually need it on the graveyard shift. SH_

Molly had to read the text several times before really believing it, and when she did, she nearly collapsed with laughter. It was very polite but still so _Sherlock, _of course she laughed. With a smile and still giggling, Molly texted a reply without hesitation:

_Yes, you may, Sherlock. Thank you for asking nicely – asking at all, really – but don't think this means I'm cleaning up after you again. MH_

As she dug into her simple breakfast, Molly made a mental note to thank John Watson next time she saw him.

* * *

…_Bright enough to help me find my way._


	5. Chapter 5

_A new chance – _

_One that maybe has a touch of romance._

* * *

The day of Molly's departure from London was as beautiful as an English June could offer. Molly didn't hesitate to accept it as a good omen.

Her cozy flat had been cleaned, covered and packed. Her furniture was covered with white sheets, and any belongings that she was not taking to New Zealand with her had been packed in boxes stacked in the flat. Molly had been ready to sublet it while she was gone, but Mycroft Holmes had assured her that it would be left alone until she came back. Her tabby cat, Toby, had passed away shortly before Sherlock had returned from his two-year absence. She couldn't help but be grateful that she hadn't had to make arrangements for her beloved pet. Standing at the front door and looking around her flat, Molly felt little sadness; her excitement and nerves were much too strong. So with a nod, Molly exited her flat and locked the door.

Outside of her building, the Watsons' car was parked and waiting for her. John was waiting at the open trunk, ready for Molly's last suitcase. "You sure you have everything, Molls?" asked John, taking it from Molly and fitting it in with the other three bags in the trunk. "No offense, but I never thought a female could take a holiday, let alone move halfway around the world, with this little luggage. I thought Mary packed up our entire flat for our honeymoon."

"Watch it, you!" Molly heard Mary call from the driver's seat. "Get in, Molly, Emma is waiting for you!"

Grinning, Molly got into the car and turned to look at the person whom she would be sharing the back seat with. "Hello, beautiful," murmured Molly, leaning down to kiss the little forehead.

Emma Margaret Watson was lying comfortably in her carrier, which was securely strapped to the back seat, gurgling to herself and flexing her little hands above her baby blanket. She had a fine amount of fair hair from her mother, and her father's dark gray eyes. She was only a month old, but she had just learned to smile – even if it was only a momentary stretch of the mouth. Emma smiled now at Molly, who beamed in return. Molly never regretted accepting this position for a minute, but she was sorry that she would not be around to personally watch baby Emma's first months in the world.

John got into the passenger's seat beside his wife, and smiled over his shoulder at Molly and his daughter. "All ready, everyone? Then let's go. We'll meet the others at Heathrow."

Molly smiled and couldn't help but bounce in her seat a bit with excitement. It felt nice to know that she was having a group of those she kept closest to her were seeing her off. During the drive to the airport, Molly chatted happily with John and Mary while cooing over the baby, wanting to get as much of this as she could before leaving.

At Heathrow, after Molly's baggage had been claimed, the group of three and a half spotted Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade making their way through the crowds towards them. "Feeling excited yet, Molly?" asked Greg, in a voice that was almost too cheerful.

"Oh, yes, as well as terrified that I'll miss my second flight," said Molly with a nervous laugh, looking around them.

"How long is your layover, dear?" asked Mrs. Hudson, in the same voice as Greg had used. "I hope it's not too long, since I know you're anxious to get there."

"I'll just spend the night in California," said Molly, still looking around. "I'm grateful for that, actually. I don't know if I could sit still for so long without a break in between on this flight to literally the other side of the world."

"Well, that's good," said Mrs. Hudson, who was wringing her hands a bit nervously.

Molly stopped looking around and landed her gaze on Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson; it was abundantly clear now that they looked uncomfortable and a bit guilty. And since Molly had not found what she was looking for, the explanation for that was even more clear now.

"He didn't want to come, then?" she asked them.

Mrs. Hudson hung her head and Lestrade sucked in his cheeks in anger. John and Mary realized what was going on and exchanged furious, exasperated looks. "That prick, he is going to _get it_!"

"He would have gotten it from me if he hadn't slammed the door in my face," said Lestrade through gritted teeth.

"I'm so sorry, dear," said Mrs. Hudson to Molly, who looked on the verge of tears. "I really thought he was coming with us when Greg came to pick me up. But when we went up to him, he said he had…that he had…"

"The asshole said that he had _more pressing matters to attend to than accompany us_," Lestrade finished, doing an accurate imitation of the detective. John quite audibly cursed under his breath.

Molly forcibly gulped to swallow the lump forming in her throat, and shook her head a bit before speaking in a resolutely calm voice. "I wish I could say I'm surprised. I figured he wouldn't want to be dragged along, but even still…" She cleared her throat a bit before continuing. "Well, there's nothing we can do about that now, so I'm counting on you all to give him hell from me."

They all managed to share a chuckle, and Molly knew that it was time to say goodbye. She turned to Lestrade first, and he enveloped her in a hug. "You have a blast, Molly, and don't worry too much. You'll be fantastic."

"Thanks, Greg," Molly muttered and pecked his cheek.

Mrs. Hudson was next, and gave her a warm, motherly hug. "Oh, we'll miss you so much, dear. Be sure to write as often as you can; you know I'm no good with this web mail contraption."

Molly laughed and said, "I promise."

Finally, Molly turned to the Watsons. She held out her arms and Mary gave her Emma for one last cuddle. "I know you'll be bigger when I come back, but not _too _big, ok?"

Emma cooed and tried to grab Molly's ponytail. Molly kissed her head then handed the baby back to her mother, who then wrapped Molly in a loose hug, both careful of the baby. "I hope this adventure is as wonderful, fulfilling and healing as it can be. And for God's sakes, have fun and tell me all about it!"

Molly laughed and turned to John, who smiled warmly before enveloping her in a big bear hug. "You deserve this, Molly," he whispered to her. "Don't you worry about us. We'll be fine, and we'll be here waiting when you come back."

The pathologist squeezed him tighter for a moment before he kissed her cheek and let her go. "I'll let you guys know when I've arrived, I promise. And thank you," She looked at each person with meaning as she spoke, "so much, for everything."

She opened her arms, and they all gave her a group hug, accompanied by a lot of laughter and a baby's squeals. With tears in her eyes, Molly hoisted the strap of her carry-on bad over her shoulder and gave them one more wave before she walked further into Heathrow.

* * *

Waiting in the semi-crowded terminal for her flight to begin boarding, Molly sat in one of the many uncomfortable chairs and tried to distract her brain with a book but was having little success. She wished that Sherlock not coming to say goodbye didn't bother her, but that would be a lie. Of course it did, and no matter how much stood between them, it hurt more than a little.

In the weeks between their argument in her flat and her departure today, Sherlock had been the best he could be with Molly. He always asked before coming to Bart's, either for a case or for an experiment. He had even asked her to accompany him on a few cases after Emma was born, so that John could have more time with his family.

On the surface level, things appeared better than ever between them. They worked together seamlessly, both in the lab and in the field, and they spoke to each other with the easy familiarity of old friends. But underneath the surface there still remained there still remained the unresolved feelings, issues and questions that Molly desperately wanted resolved before she left. Molly couldn't deny that she still felt betrayed and hurt by Sherlock's past actions, and until she had a full explanation for those actions, she could not accept his apology or forgive him in good conscience. And she had come no closer to getting that explanation in the weeks following their argument. Sherlock never mentioned that conversation, nor did he ever make any mention or question about her move.

In conclusion, though he was treating her with true respect and trust, he resolutely behaved as though she weren't going away and that he had a lot of explaining to do. In other words, he refused to acknowledge that anything was wrong or different between them. _Still a stubborn child in that genius detective…in other words, a real ass._

Molly sighed and slammed her book shut, putting it back in her bag with a bit more force than necessary. At that moment, her mobile in her pocket vibrated once in a text alert. Assuming it was the Watsons giving one more goodbye in these few minutes before she boarded the plain, she took out her phone. But it wasn't from either John or Mary – it was from Sherlock, and it consisted of only two words:

_Look up. SH_

She did, and there, standing in the entrance to her waiting area, was a very familiar figure, his mobile in one hand, dressed in a Heathrow security uniform.

Molly couldn't deny the happiness she felt at the sight of him, nor tried to stop the smile that spread across her face as she got up from her seat and went to him. "You jerk! Why didn't you come with everybody else and let us all think you weren't going to bother?"

"Once again, John and Lestrade heard me but did not listen," said Sherlock, sounding both annoyed at them and pleased that she was happy to see him. "I told them I had more pressing matters to attend to than accompany them, and I did. Those more pressing matters was to contact a former client, a security guard here who owed me a favor, and ensure that I have a way to say goodbye without it being critiqued by our well-meaning but sometimes critical circle."

Molly laughed, knowing exactly what he meant. No doubt John would be pushing him to give a more extroverted goodbye than Sherlock was used to.

Awkward silence soon descended upon them, which Sherlock broke after a moment. "I may still text you…would that be alright?"

"Of course," said Molly. "Your brother already covered that for me. He updated my phone with a new plan that has unlimited international communications. He said it was his way of repaying me for my help in the Fall. Just keep the time difference in mind when you can, ok?"

"You will be thirteen hours ahead, I'm well aware of that and will not forget."

"Good." Awkward silence again, until Molly felt that she just _had _to ask, since this was her last proper chance in six months. "Is there…anything else you want to tell me before I go?" She made sure her tone left no doubt of what she meant. _Will you finally tell me how you could go to your death without even telling me? Why you couldn't bear to look at me when you came back until my leaving forced you to? _

But Sherlock only hung his head, hiding the emotions that were burning in his eyes so Molly couldn't read them.

At that moment, a flight attendant spoke into a microphone to her group saying, "Attention: the 3:40 flight from London to Los Angeles will begin boarding now. Please have your tickets ready before passing through."

Molly jumped a bit at the sound and sighed. Now it was time for her to go, and he still couldn't or wouldn't give her what she needed to know. Resolving to not stoop to a level beneath her even at the eleventh hour, Molly straightened her spine and caught Sherlock's eyes, since he had raised his head at the announcement. He was looking at her now in a way that would have rendered her a simpering, stuttering blob years ago…not it just made her heart twist uncomfortably.

"Well…I'll see you in the new year, then," Molly said with a nod, knowing that this was the last man who would want emotions or physical contact in any interaction, let alone a goodbye in an airport.

But when she made to turn around, a pair of hands grabbed her waist and pulled her right against him. Molly gasped in shock, not just at his actions but at the expression on his face. The only time she had ever seen his expression so open and vulnerable had been the night he had come to her for help in saving his life. His eyes burned with emotions and words, powerful ones that she couldn't define – and perhaps neither could he. His head lowered, and Molly prepared herself for a kiss on her right cheek, as he had given her twice before.

But that's not what happened. Instead, Sherlock's lips touched the scar Moriarty's knife had left over a pulse point that was beating strong and fast. And this was no quick peck as his previous two kisses had been – this one lingered for a few seconds at least. Molly's eyelids drooped closed as her own surprise and emotions threatened to drown her. Her face also burned; the last person she had ever expected to give her such an outwardly romantic and very public display of affection.

Because she could understand Sherlock on such a deep level no one could explain, Molly could feel on an almost subconscious level all that he was telling her in this intimate action: his apology that he couldn't give her what she so needed to hear from him, his regret that Moriarty had put her in such a terrible position, his happiness that her pulse was still beating fast and strong…and how much he was going to miss her since he couldn't stop her from going so far away.

Finally, Sherlock lifted his head again and looked at her. His arms had wrapped around her waist during his shocking action, but now they slowly loosened as the flight attendant made a second request for passengers to board.

In a voice so rich and deep it brought tears to Molly's eyes, Sherlock said, "Goodbye, Molly."

At first, all Molly could manage was a tremulous smile as she blinked back her tears. Then she lifted her hand and brushed a curl back from Sherlock's forehead before resting it on his cheek. Perhaps she was only imagining that Sherlock leaned into her touch, but she knew she didn't imagine him closing his eyes.

Steeling herself and her emotions, Molly said in return: "Goodbye, Sherlock."

She let her hand drop, turned, picked up her carry-on bag, and boarded the plane. And though the memory of his kiss burned against her skin, she didn't look back.

* * *

_Where can it be?_

_A chance for me..._


	6. Chapter 6

_A new dream – _

_I have one I know that very few dream._

* * *

The sound of a beautiful and almost melancholy lullaby played expertly on a violin filled 221B Baker Street. It came from Sherlock's bedroom, where he was playing to four-month-old Emma in her portable pram. Her parents were seated in the living room on the sofa, John's arm around Mary, both completely relaxed and content. They had brought their favorite Chinese takeout, since "dinner with Sherlock" never involved the kitchen of 221B being used for culinary purposes. With their stomachs pleasantly full and beautiful music in the air, the Watsons shared a lovely moment of contentment life is sometimes generous enough to give away.

Mary, who had been checking her e-mail on her iPad, jumped a bit when a ringing sound beeped from it. John, who had been about to drift off, became alert instantly, a bit annoyed that his tranquil mood had been disturbed. Mary had no time to get irritated, for when she saw the cause of the ringing, she sat up and gasped excitedly through her wide smile.

"It's Molly!" exclaimed Mary in a soft voice, mindful of Emma and Sherlock's lullaby. John became as excited as his wife, and silently urged her to accept the call, which of course Mary did.

A few seconds later, the iPad screen filled with an image of Molly that John and Mary had never expected to see.

"Hello, Watsons!" said Molly merrily with a wave and a giggle. She was seated on her bed, and it looked like her laptop was on a desk of some kind that was nearby. Her bedroom was flooded with bright morning light; while it was 8:35 PM in London now, it was 9:35 AM the next day on her side of the world. Her long hair was damp and loose, and it shined in the sunlight.

What surprised the Watsons, though, was Molly's choice of attire.

"Wow, look at you, surfer girl!" said John, grinning as widely as his wife was at the sight of Molly.

Looking down at herself, Molly blushed and laughed self-consciously. "Oh, gosh, I forgot I haven't changed yet. Geez, I'm still wet!"

"I must say, that's a good color scheme," said Mary. "Purple and turquoise go well together, even on a wet suit and especially on you. Good show not going for one of those dull black ones."

"Thanks," said Molly, who had begun carefully combing her long locks, damp from her recent activities. "What colors would you two choose?"

"Hmm…royal blue and gold," replied Mary, and then looked at John. "Tangerine and hot pink for him, I think."

"Hey!" he exclaimed while the two women laughed.

"No, no, Mary, that would look _much _better on Sherlock," said Molly, once she had paused her laughter long enough to speak.

Now all three of them were laughing without abandon at the thought of Sherlock in a pink and yellow wetsuit. None of them noticed the violin melody had stopped and the door to Sherlock's bedroom had opened and closed. Only when Sherlock had walked through the kitchen and cleared his throat loudly did they all stop and look at him (well, John and Mary did, since the iPad was facing the two of them).

"I've just succeeded in putting my goddaughter to sleep, so please do not ruin my exceptional work by guffawing like that," he said a bit petulantly.

John and Mary just grinned at him, pleased that he was taking his familial duties seriously; also, that comical image was still in their minds. It was the person that Sherlock didn't even know they were talking to that spoke: "Oh, sorry, Sherlock, we'll keep our voices down now."

Sherlock's eyes fell to Mary's iPad, having recognized the voice immediately, and his entire expression visibly lit up – subtly, yes, but more than enough for John and Mary to see. The consulting detective said, "Molly!" with so much happiness, and grabbed the iPad from Mary's hands. But when he looked at the screen, the delight melted into frustration. "Where are you?" he whined.

Molly's giggle sounded from the device, though she did not appear on the screen. "I'm just drying myself off and changing out of my wetsuit, ok? I'll just be a few minutes and you can still hear me, so be patient for a few minutes, ok?"

Neither John and Mary thought they imagined seeing the blush that flooded Sherlock's cheeks or hearing him stumble over an, "All right," before handing the iPad back to a smirking Mary.

"So, you surfing every morning now, Molls?" asked John. "You must be enjoying it as much as you hoped you would."

"Oh, so much! Once or twice a week, a group of us spend at least an hour at the beach before going to the university." Molly let out a very girly giggle. "I still can't believe it sometimes! All my life, learning to surf was just a pipe dream that I thought I'd never have the chance to fulfill, and now it's happening! Between this and my Tai Chi lessons, I will be in killer shape by the time I'm with you guys again. This morning's surfing was pretty routine, but I only fell off my board once, which is quite an accomplishment for me. Hugh says I'm getting better and better."

"Well, the longer you keep at something, someone with your intelligence level is bound to improve," Sherlock said, a bit sourly.

"Sherlock," John muttered with a warning glance, who had a gut feeling that the mention of Molly's newest friend that she had met through surfing was the cause of Sherlock's tone of voice. But Molly just laughed.

"I'll take that as the closest thing to a compliment you can give, Sherlock," she said cheerily. In the next minute, she was sitting on her bed, now dressed in a pair of jeans and a plaid blouse, and loosely braiding her still damp hair. "I'm glad you're with John and Mary, because what I wanted to show them has to do with you."

Sherlock now plopped down on the sofa beside Mary, who held the iPad between the two men. "Out with it, then," he said pleasantly.

Molly looked as though she couldn't wait to let the grin she was holding back burst out, but was restraining herself until the proper moment. "Well, yesterday I went shopping with Addie, it being Friday and a pay day. We came across this little English shop, offering English tea and selling all kinds of merchandise related to Britain. Like Great Britain's official gift shop halfway around the world." Molly giggled. "It was quite a hoot, actually. Especially when I found a display near the cash register that consisted of…" Molly reached behind her back, and revealed –

John and Mary burst into laughter, while Sherlock rolled his eyes with a mortified groan of "Oh, for God's sake!"

"It gets better," said Molly, now grinning without restraint. She lifted the label that had been attached to the gray deerstalker, and read aloud: _"'The deerstalker is a type of cap that is worn most commonly in the rural areas of England, often for hunting and especially deer stalking, which is where the cap got its name. This cap has seen a massive rise in popularity in England in recent years, due to the fact that Sherlock Holmes, self-proclaimed "consulting detective" who has become a cultural icon in London, has been known to wear it.' _It then gives the link to your blog, John, in case one wanted '_to learn more about Sherlock Holmes and his adventures._' The bloke at the register couldn't shut up about how awesome he thought your blog was, John, and how cool he thought you were, Sherlock. I suppose this means you two are famous down under!"

John looked absolutely delighted; Mary looked like Christmas had come three months early; Sherlock looked like he had swallowed a large and particularly sour grapefruit in one gulp, mumbling, "Even on the other side of the world, I can't escape that stupid ear hat!"

"Please save that label and bring it back with you, Molly!" said John. "I would love to have that piece of proof that I have an international reputation."

"Of course I will, John!" Molly's mobile phone chimed, and she picked it up. She blushed and giggled as she read the text she had just received.

A delighted and mischievous smirk lit up Mary's face. "I know what that blush and giggle mean, Molly. Give me a name _now_!"

"It's just Hugh," said Molly, setting her mobile aside. "Loves to make me blush by any means necessary, even if he can't see me."

"Molly, you will only be there for three more months. Do you really think it wise, given that and your taste in men, to attempt to form a serious attachment that will have no chance of longetivity?"

A tense silence followed this comment and question from the consulting detective. Mary was visibly wincing, and John looked ready to reach over his wife and grab Sherlock by the hair.

Molly, however, sighed in disappointment more than anger, and eventually said, "First of all, I have no interest in pursuing a 'serious attachment' with Hugh. As fucking amazing as his body is in a wetsuit, Hugh is happily gay and happily married." A wry and completely unamused smile spread across her face as she watched Sherlock's expression freeze and color in shameful embarrassment. "And for the record, Hugh likes to embarrass me and make me blush, not because he wants to steal my heart away, but because it helps to bring me out of my shell, so to speak, being a shy and quiet girl. It's nice when someone you know goes out of their way to make you feel better about yourself without wanting anything in return. Wouldn't you agree, Sherlock?"

All of this was said by Molly in a calm and honest voice that held no hint of malice or annoyance, which made Sherlock feel even worse. He lowered his head, mumbled what could have been an apology or an 'excuse me,' and then got off the couch. He walked to the window overlooking Baker Street, out of Molly's field of vision.

John watched Molly give another sigh and small shake of the head before looking at Mary on her screen. "How is Emma? Can I see her or is she asleep by now?"

"She _is _asleep, but I'll give you a peek of her," said Mary, eager to get Molly into a better mood. She got up from the couch with her iPad, and they walked through the kitchen to Sherlock's bedroom.

Once they had gone, John got up and cautiously went to his friend, whose fists were clenched very tightly. But before John could even open his mouth, Sherlock said in a soft and tight voice, "Don't, John, just don't…there is nothing you can say that I haven't already thought."

John nodded and went back to the sofa. Looking at Sherlock, it both lifted and broke his heart to see how much Sherlock missed – even pined – for his pathologist.

* * *

_I would like to see that overdue dream,_

_Even though it never may come true._


	7. Chapter 7

_A new love – _

_Though I know there's no such thing as true love._

* * *

It was hardly an unusual thing for Sherlock Holmes to be wide awake in the very early hours of the morning before the sky had even begun to grow light. His sleeping habits (as well as his eating habits) were anything but regular, and he only ever really indulged in both when he'd finished a case.

One such time in early December found Sherlock sitting on his bed, his back against the headboard and his laptop open on his lap. He'd solved a particularly interesting one just this afternoon, and had fallen asleep as soon as his head hit his pillow after devouring anything edible in Mrs. Hudson's refrigerator. Sherlock had woken up half an hour ago completely energized and ready for something new for his huge brain to work on.

He had just finished answering an e-mail about a missing husband (honestly, were all bored and neglected housewives _this _stupid?) when his Skype icon began to bounce with an alert. Opening it, Sherlock saw that Molly had just come online. He grinned without restraint, glad that his pathologist had unknowingly provided him with the perfect form of rescue from such mundane problems. Yes, they were beneath his intelligence level, but sometimes desperate times called for desperate measures when trying to fight off boredom. Without hesitation but with great excitement, Sherlock clicked on Molly's name and made a call. She answered after three rings.

Her image filled the screen. From the position of her own laptop, Sherlock saw that the device was seated at the desk in her bedroom there. Molly herself was sitting in the desk chair, clearly just home from a day at the university, judging by her neat bun and lilac blouse. The small smile she had been sporting widened when she got a good look at Sherlock. "Hello, sleepy-head."

Sherlock ignored the increased heart rate at the term of endearment and narrowed his eyes at her as he asked, "How did you know?"

Now Molly laughed (Sherlock's chest filled with a pleasant warmth at the sound) and replied, "Your hair is even more poofy than usual, so unless you've used a blow-dryer on your hair at the highest intensity level…"

Sherlock smiled at his pathologist's deduction skills - a very easy one to deduce, yes, but since Molly's hair was straight…wait – Sherlock's smile faded as he asked, "How would you know this is how my hair looks after I've been sleeping?"

"Well, Tom had even curlier hair than you, and his head was always an amusing fright in the morning."

All warmth and happiness that Sherlock had felt upon seeing Molly on his computer screen was dampened considerably at the mention of Mr. Meat Dagger. The fact that her reply was spoken in a completely casual and offhand tone only made it worse…no, wait, it wasn't that…it was that barely detectable note of melancholy, of wistful sadness, in her voice. Which reminded him of something he (really) wanted to know.

"Molly, why did your engagement end?"

For a moment, Molly looked surprised. Whether it was because he was actually asking or that he didn't already know, Sherlock wasn't sure. A moment later, Molly had composed herself and answered him in an even tone that did not lose the melancholy note that Sherlock had detected earlier.

"Well, it was about a week after John and Mary's wedding. Tom and I were visiting his family in Northampton for the weekend. We ran into someone there, a woman that Tom had known since childhood and had dated seriously before she'd moved to Edinburgh for University. Turned out she had just moved back and…well, it took less than twenty-four hours for them to realize that it wasn't nearly over between them…I just wish I didn't have to find out by walking in on them making out behind his parents' house."

A white-hot impulse to find Mr. Meat Dagger and tear his internal organs out one by one began to boil in the pit of Sherlock's stomach. His hands had clenched into shaking fists, but they loosened as Molly continued in that sad, resigned tone. _Why did she not sound as furious as he felt?_

Her next words gave him the answer to that question. "When I saw them, and they saw me, my first thought was asking myself why I didn't feel at all angry. I barely remember handing him back the ring he gave me and telling him to gather his things from my flat while I was at work on Monday. He had left a letter with his spare key when I came home that day, full of apologies and explanations and farewells. And that was that."

A few minutes of silence passed. The sadness in her eyes was more wistful that anguishing, which Sherlock was glad of. It helped to calm his own rage, and made it easier for him to eventually say, in a quiet voice, "I'm sorry, Molly." And he truly meant it. The last person who deserved to be betrayed like that was Molly Hooper. As Sherlock had once told her, Molly Hooper deserved to be very happy.

A small smile lifted Molly's thin lips momentarily, for she could tell that Sherlock was sincere. "It's all right, really. It just wasn't meant to be. I think I always knew that, and it's why I never felt angry. I know he was sorry it ended like that, and the last thing he wanted was to hurt me. We did love each other, but not the way we deserve to be loved. I hope that he will be happy now. She can give him what he wants and needs in a way I never could. He wanted to move back to his village, live the quiet life with his family away from the big city. In his letter, he said that I wouldn't be happy outside of London…" Molly's small smile reappeared as she looked at her interlocked fingers sitting atop her desk. "I believed him until recently…"

"What do you mean, Molly?" asked Sherlock almost sharply. He began to feel afraid of what she meant. Did she regret losing Tom? Did she truly want that quiet life.

Now Molly looked back at Sherlock on her screen with what could only nervousness. Her interlocked fingers tightened around each other. "Today, Dr. Carlisle asked me to come to lunch with her and one of the deans of UOC. They told me about what a phenomenal job they think I'm doing in the position, and…asked if I would consider accepting a…a permanent position with them."

Sherlock's entire body became numb, except for the feeling of his stomach suddenly feeling as heavy as his microscope. "…Permanent?"

Molly nodded, and now spoke in a bit of a rush. "Yes. You see, the professor that I'm filling in for this semester is taking a sabbatical in India, but they've just heard that she'd like to settle and help develop a new college there. And they really seem to think I'm doing a good job here, so…"

"And…" It suddenly became very difficult for Sherlock to speak past the lump in his desert-dry throat. "And you're…you're seriously considering accepting."

Molly slowly nodded, looking torn between being apologetic and defiant. "Yes, I am. Look, I never expected or imagined how…how _amazing _my time here has been. I have a job that I love, and that has really helped my confidence in my abilities. I'm learning to do things that I thought I would only ever dream about, like surfing. The friends I've made here, Hugh and Addie especially, are two of the best people I've ever known. I think I could be really happy here, Sherlock." She paused and sighed. "As much as you would hate my moving here would complicate your life, I know that you want me to be happy."

Sherlock knew that if he kept talking to her, he would somehow lose the ability to breathe – boring as it was, it was unfortunately essential to living. Lowering his eyes to his lap, he managed to choke out in as much of his normal tone of voice as he could muster: "Call me back in fifteen minutes exactly. This conversation is _not _over." Then he hung up on her, deleting her image without looking at her reaction.

* * *

The next fifteen minutes for Sherlock Holmes were fifteen of the hardest minutes he ever had to live through. Even if he spent them lying on his back on his bed, completely still with his hands folded in their customary position under his chin, inside himself was utter chaos, panic, fear, and a gathering of courage that was nothing short of a Herculean effort.

Five of those minutes were spent with him running aimlessly through his Mind Palace, not wanting to face the potential reality of a life without Molly. Each scenario he ran through was more horrific than the last. This temporary separation – or what he thought would be temporary – was bad enough. Yes, he could text her anytime limitlessly and Skype her easily from his phone or computer, but Sherlock had learned very quickly that electronic forms of communication were very shallow substitutes for having her real presence close by, always there for him, ready and willing to be there for him. He found himself not only missing her presence, but wishing she was there for him to do things he'd never done with her before, to appreciate things he'd been too stupid to notice before. A life without Molly there…it was a prospect that had terrified Sherlock like nothing had before, not even John getting married. At least then John wasn't going anywhere.

The next five minutes were spent berating himself with that feeling he hated to feel, that he managed to avoid most of the time but never when it came to Molly: guilt. He did not have to be as smart as he was to see how much Molly was thriving in New Zealand. Each time he spoke to her over Skype, she seemed to beam even brighter with quiet confidence she hadn't believed she could possess before. She truly was happy there, and though Sherlock was a very selfish and possessive creature of those select few people he held in his heart, he had meant it when he told Molly that she deserved to be nothing but happy. That had been when she had been engaged to Tom…why should that not apply to this situation as well?

The final five minutes Sherlock spent in organizing what he would say to Molly when she called back. She was a woman of her word that he trusted absolutely; he knew she would call back when he asked. She was undoubted very worried about him now, since he had not given her a reaction or opinion of her news. He knew what he had to do, but he had a long history of hurting Molly by saying the right (or wrong) thing in the worst (possible) way.

Failure was not an option anymore…not when he would lose, in his own words, the one person that mattered the most.

* * *

Right on time, Molly called Sherlock back over Skype, and he answered after three rings. Her face, once it materialized on the screen, was the epitome of confusion and worry. "Sherlock, please talk to me and be honest. Don't say you're ok when I know you're not."

Hearing an echo of those words she had spoken to him so long ago, the words that had helped him really see her, gave Sherlock the last drop of desperate courage he needed to say what needed to be said – the _right _way.

"Ask me again."

Molly furrowed her brow. "Ask you what again?"

"The question you want me to answer that I couldn't answer before you left."

Molly realized what he meant in a few seconds, and her confusion was replaced with a wary fear. This subject had not been addressed by either of them since the day she had left England. Molly had not wanted to push him for an answer he wasn't ready to give confidently and willingly; Sherlock had not wanted to answer her question over an electronic device rather than face-to-face. But now that he was faced with the possibility of not having that option, well, desperate times called for desperate measures. And Molly knew that he would ask for her to ask unless he had the answer she needed to know.

So she took a deep breath and asked: "How could you make me believe that I didn't count again?"

Hearing it phrased in the worst possible way, Sherlock had to close his eyes and gather himself for a moment. Finally, he opened his eyes again and gave a long overdue answer:

"Because I was a coward. Because the thought of saying goodbye to you believing I would never see you again terrified me more than jumping off that roof. I was afraid of watching you go through the denial this could be happening, the anger at the situation, the pleading to be able to somehow help as you once did, and most of all the devastation I knew you would feel. Not only that, I was terrified of how I would react to that, because I knew that I would not be able to hide anything from you, especially emotions I could not define."

A tear had fallen onto Molly's cheek hearing all of this. Her hand came up to her throat to touch her scar, remembering the message from Moriarty that had saved him, and nearly losing her life so shortly thereafter. "Is that why you pushed me away after…"

"Yes. I didn't want anything to change now that I had gotten my life back. But then you got that offer, and you learned everything I had kept from you…There was no going back after that."

Molly wiped away the tears freely falling from her eyes and asked in an unsteady voice, "Why couldn't you tell me this before I left, Sherlock?"

Sherlock ran his fingers through his hair, his own throat tightening. "Because I did not want to give you a reason to not go on your adventure. You deserved it after all you'd been through. As much as I didn't want you to go…I knew that you needed to." He met her eyes through the web cameras. "I am sorry, Molly. I am…_so_…sorry…for everything."

Sherlock had given Molly the explanation and apology she had needed and deserved long overdue but not too late (hopefully). He watched her take a big, relieved breath as she closed her eyes and wiped her face with a tissue.

But before she could say anything, Sherlock spoke again. There was one more thing that he needed to say to her. Again, he really would have preferred not to have to do this over an electronic form of communication, but…

"Molly, before you can make the decision of where your life will go, you need all of the information that you can get with each option. I'm sure you are getting all of the information you need about your option of staying in New Zealand…but there is one crucial piece of information you need to know about your option of returning to London."

"About you?" asked Molly weakly.

"Yes." Sherlock took a deep breath, for the first time wishing that he had John's brain instead of his own (only for this situation, of course), and spoke his next words very carefully. "Molly, you need to know that, if you return to London, I do not want our relationship to be what it was: before or after the Fall, before or after your engagement, before or after you left. If you come back…I want you to be…What I mean is, I want to be…with you."

Molly seemed to freeze on the screen, though Sherlock knew the connection had not been lost. He saw her gulp and her eyes widen before she managed to squeak. "Be with me? In what way?"

Now Sherlock gulped and took the plunge. "In every way."

Molly's hand flew to her mouth, which then slid down to her heart. "Really? Are you sure?"

"Molly…I would rather have you on the other side of the world having a happy, fulfilling life, than have you close to me again but knowing I couldn't have you completely…I wish I could say you don't know that kind of pain, but since I'm the reason you can…"

Silence followed for a full minute. Molly's shock was still clearly visible, and Sherlock felt suddenly drained after revealing so much he had denied, fought against, and hidden from everyone, let alone Molly, for so long. It was Sherlock who broke the silence, his voice a quiet plea.

"Now you have all of the information you need to choose what new life you want, Molly Hooper. Whichever you choose…well, I hope you will let me know by the new year, because yours is not the only life which will be decided."

Molly looked at him through the camera for seconds that seemed to last hours. Finally, she seemed to gather herself until she looked at him calmly and with quiet strength.

"I forgive you, Sherlock…Bye."

It wasn't until she clicked her mouse and her image disappeared from his screen that Sherlock realized how…final…those five words had sounded.

* * *

_Even so, although I never knew love,_

_Still I feel that one dream is my due…_


	8. Chapter 8

_A new world – _

_This one thing I want to ask of you, world:_

* * *

Addie, born and bred on the eastern Australian coast, was just as much at home in the water as she was on land, possibly even more. Her lithe and petite body was made to swim, much too graceful to always be tied down to gravity. With the ease of a mermaid, Addie swam up to the surface of the Pacific and broke it with a great gasp of air.

"Ah, damn!" she exclaimed good-naturedly as she climbed onto her surf board again, mounting it like a horse. "These waves are giving us quite the workout this morning!"

"And not the kind of workout we want," said Hugh, who had just gotten onto his own larger board. He was panting heavily; his wipeout had been a little more harsher than Addie's, being as she had wisely passed the wave at the last minute while Hugh had attempted to ride the monster wave.

Molly, who had watched them both from a safe distance on her own board, giggled at them both. "Are the waves always more intimidating here in your native land, you two?"

"Depends on the weather patterns, really," said Addie. "Now that our summer has started, more tropical storms are sending their waves rippling our way."

"Well, I'm certainly not complaining about the weather," said Molly, looking up at the clear blue sky and savoring the strong sunlight on her face. "I've never experienced warmth like this!"

"Ah, yes, London girl, of course you haven't," said Hugh, smiling.

"Thank you guys so much for bringing me out here for the weekend!" said Molly, wiping a wet strand of hair that had fallen from her braid off her forehead. "It's so beautiful! And I can add Australia to my list of countries I've visited. This makes four!"

"Well, after all of the work we've done this semester, we all deserve this little vacation," said Addie, squeezing Molly's hand.

"Honestly, I feel like I've been on vacation since coming to this hemisphere," said Molly. "Even though I've been working hard here, it's _good _work, you know, and the place, the sights, a new but somehow familiar culture just makes it extraordinary."

"Well, you have been a blessing to it," said Hugh. "And I think I can speak for my cousin when I say that?"

"Absolutely," said Addie. "I'm glad we were able to bring you over here before…before the new year." She ended her statement hesitantly.

With Hugh being a professor of dermatology, and Addie being Molly's teaching assistant, both knew that Molly had been offered a permanent position at UOC. Their British friend had asked them to not pressure her to make one decision, assuring her that those she had left behind were not pressuring her to make the other decision. Molly loved all of them dearly for that.

"They want an answer by Monday, when we get back," said Molly, looking at the shoreline a short distance away. "I'm sorry I haven't been able to give a definitive answer sooner, but –"

"Hey, none of that!" said Hugh, rubbing Molly's shoulder. "This is a big decision that should never be made quickly. You take as much time as you can."

"And whatever you choose, Molly, know that we'll support you one hundred percent," said Addie, smiling sincerely.

Molly returned the smile. Looking from the olive-skinned and muscular Hugh to the petite and fair-haired Adelaide, Molly's heart filled at the sight of her two good friends. Growing up, she never really had any friends that she could fully depend upon. Now, she could say she had quite a few…and one who could become so much more. Molly gulped and closed her eyes tight for a moment…she wasn't feeling quite brave enough for that decision yet.

When Molly opened her eyes, all three of them looked to the ocean and the wave that was building, coming closer and closer to them. "Oh, that's going to be a monster," said Hugh. "Over ten feet! Not sure I have the stamina after that last wipeout."

"Yeah, me neither, right Molly?" said Addie, turning to the brunette. But she wasn't there. The two cousins looked at each other in alarm, and then looked towards the wave – and saw Molly paddling towards it at top speed.

"Molly!" Addie shrieked, terrified for her friend. When Molly dove under the water in front of the wave, she turned to Hugh with wide eyes. "We should go get her. She's so new to surfing compared to us, that wave is too big!"

"You know Molly isn't one for making rash decisions, Addie," said Hugh, shaking his head but looking no less terrified for their friend. "She wants to do this, so let's just be ready in case. The hardest part for her is to find her footing on the board. If she does, she'll be just fine."

The cousins watched with baited breath as the wave grew to its full and formidable size. Molly reappeared at the tail end of it, lying flat across her board with a tight grip. Both saw Molly begin to lift herself, slip a bit, and try again almost shakily.

"Come on, find your footing," muttered Hugh. Addie tightened her grip on her own board, not daring to look away.

Their nervousness made it all the more thrilling when Molly _did _find her footing and keep it as she rode the wave.

"Oh, my God, she's doing it, she's doing it!" exclaimed Hugh, a wide grin on his face.

"Go, Molly, keep going! Woohoo!" Addie cheered and clapped her hands.

Molly rode the wave as naturally as a pro, and just before the wave broke, she gracefully dived off her board into the sea.

Hugh and Addie were far from the only ones cheering at Molly's triumph. Everyone at that beach clapped for Molly.

* * *

Some hours later, Molly stood outside of the small hotel that she and her two friends were staying in. It was a beautiful white structure, next to a cliff face on the Pacific coast. Molly had fallen in love with the ocean since coming to this hemisphere, especially when riding its waves. She had found just watching it and listening to it could be incredibly soothing and helpful to a restless mind and soul.

Now, her mind and soul did not feel restless – they felt triumphant. A month ago, the thought of riding a wave like that would have terrified her too much to ever entertain the possibility of her actually doing it. Now…oh, she had been terrified all right, but that very fact had been the reason why she felt she just _had _to try it. She couldn't explain it, so she didn't try to.

What Molly _did_ know was that not only doing it but succeeding had helped her make the most important decision of her life.

In her hands, Molly held the deerstalker hat that she had purchased three months ago in the small British tourist shop. She looked at it, turning it around in her hands for a long time, reflecting on all that this hat had come to represent. Finally, biting her lower lip, Molly tore the label she had promised to save for John from the hat, and pocketed it. Then, Molly positioned herself, grasped the hat by the front brim, and then tossed it like a frisbee towards the ocean. Molly watched it fly over the cliff face and fall into the crashing waves below until it had disappeared beneath them.

Molly beamed a smile brighter than the sun, feeling more triumphant than ever. She knew her decision was made, and she would not regret it.

She practically skipped back into the hotel, pulling out her phone to make a call.

* * *

_Once, before it's time to say, 'Adieu, world,'_

_One sweet chance to prove the cynics wrong!_


	9. Chapter 9

_A new life!_

_More and more I'm sure as I go through life:_

* * *

John, Mary, Mrs. Hudson and Greg all finished the final chorus of "We Wish You A Merry Christmas" with a chuckle quickly followed by silence. The silence was soon broken by the cries of seven-month-old Emma, who was sitting on her godfather's lap, and his expression mirrored the sound of her cries in crankiness.

"And on this note," he said above the baby's wailing, holding her out for her mother to take. "I will head back to Baker Street."

"You've only been here for twenty minutes," said Mary, taking her daughter and cuddling her to calm her.

"I'm shocked we even got him here at all," said John with a shrug. "Shouldn't force him to stay or else there could be serious consequences."

"Well, we've seen Sherlock do worse at Christmas parties," said Greg idly as he poured himself a cup of eggnog.

John immediately winced and looked at Sherlock, who had frozen with a pained expression on his face. But it only lasted a moment, and then he had walked into the front hallway to put on his coat and scarf. The others all followed him to see him off.

"Are you coming too, Mrs. Hudson?" asked Sherlock, looping his scarf around his neck.

"Oh, no, I'll stay for a bit longer," said Mrs. Hudson merrily, already on her second helping of eggnog.

"I'll see that she gets back to Baker Street," said Greg.

"Fine," said Sherlock, turning to the door, more than ready to leave.

"We're glad you came, Sherlock," said Mary.

"Yeah, mate, we really are," said John.

Sherlock turned to look at the two of them, seeing how genuine they were being, with baby Emma now happily dozing on her mother's shoulder with her father's hand on her back. And in that moment, seeing the pair of them and what they had, Sherlock didn't have the heart to make any sarcastic snap. So he merely gave a nod and turned back to the door.

But before he could open it, Mrs. Hudson had turned him around and wrapped him in a warm hug. Again, he didn't have the heart to be aloof, and responded by hugging her back. He couldn't deny that a motherly hug felt good. When he pulled away, Mrs. Hudson was looking at him with such love in her full eyes. "Happy Christmas, Sherlock," she said sincerely.

Sherlock could only gulp and nod.

Both Greg and John stepped up to Sherlock and clapped him on the shoulder with a concurring, "Happy Christmas." Mary then gave one of her own after kissing Sherlock's cheek. Emma even gave a merry coo at him.

Again, Sherlock could only nod, and he couldn't leave the Watsons' home fast enough.

In the next minute, a black government car had pulled up to the curb, and Sherlock got into it without hesitation. He was even more grateful that no one but the driver was in the car. Since it was nearly impossible to hail a cab on Christmas Eve, Sherlock knew that this was his older brother's way of giving him a Christmas present. _Much better than a comic about a killer zombie dog the Christmas after Redbeard was put down, _thought Sherlock, shuddering at the memory.

This just reminded him of why he was very grateful his brother was tactful enough not to be with Sherlock in the car right now, for it was the same reason that he had wanted to leave the Watsons' Christmas party after merely twenty minutes, and why he couldn't get away from their sincere holiday wishes fast enough.

He could see it so clearly in all of their faces: the pity. They knew how his feelings for Molly had changed, how much he missed her, and how deeply he felt her absence now. Every one of them knew that, if Molly had chosen to return to London, she would have come back by now for the holidays. Molly would want to spend her favorite time of year at home, what she called home…and she wasn't here. It also didn't help that Sherlock had not had any contact with Molly since that pivotal Skype conversation at three in the morning when he'd told her he wanted to be with her in every way if she came back. After all, _he _had left _her _with the choice, not the other way around. If she accepted what he offered, he wanted her to come to that decision _on her own_, otherwise he would always be left with a little seed of doubt.

Well…her answer was clearly no. Her silence and her absence were more than enough to tell him that. And more than enough to make him finally understand the concept of 'heartbreak.'

He would be fine. He would force himself to be fine if it took every ounce of willpower he had. He would not let this defeat him. He would be just fine. He had to be. He's made it this long without sentiment, a romantic relationship, all that that entailed, whatever the hell that entailed. He would be absolutely fine. He just had to be.

Sherlock was brought out of his reverie by the feeling of his mobile vibrating in his coat pocket. He pulled it out and found a text from Mycroft.

_Have a truly happy Christmas, little brother._

"Impeccable timing, as always, Mycroft," Sherlock muttered angrily as he exited the government car and stormed inside the building.

As he began to climb the first part of the flight of stairs, his steps slowed and stopped as he sniffed the air. A scent had stopped him, instantly put him on alert. The scent was both familiar and unfamiliar…it was very peculiar. He soon resumed his climb up the stairs, going slowly. He rounded the curve in the stairs and started up the second part until his door came into full view…

And he stopped completely, grabbing onto the railing before he fell back from the shock.

This was not the first time Sherlock had come home to find a woman he knew asleep and waiting for him. The first time, he hadn't been able to smell her until he'd come inside his flat, and he'd followed the scent into his room, where he found Irene Adler sleeping in his bed. She'd made herself perfectly at home, invading his home and even wearing one of his dressing gowns. Talk about an invasion of privacy.

This second time could not be more different. This time, Sherlock had caught the scent from the stairs because the woman was sleeping on the landing in front of his door, curled on her side. She wore her own clothes, still wearing her winter outerwear, with an overnight bag as a pillow. This wasn't an invasion of privacy – this was the most shy and sweet way of asking to come in.

Each scenario fit the women's personalities perfectly: the first being The Woman, the second being The One.

"_Molly!_" Sherlock breathed with all of the emotions pouring out of his heart.

For a long minute he just stood there, letting his eyes drink in the sight of her as well as his nose inhale her scent. No wonder he hadn't recognized it at first, since her clothes were new and her soaps and shampoos different too (they would have different brands down there). But underneath all of that was her unique scent that had not changed and that he had missed a lot. After all, electronic communications couldn't convey scents.

Eventually, Sherlock felt the feeling returning to his legs and he slowly walked up the rest of the steps, never looking away from the sleeping beauty on his landing. She stayed asleep even when he came onto the landing, and Sherlock had no desire to wake her. That was when he spotted the folded piece of paper laying neatly at her elbow. Sherlock silently bent down to pick it up (it took a Herculean effort not to touch her), and he carefully unfolded it when he'd straightened up.

Of course it was for him.

_Dearest Sherlock,_

_If you're reading this, it means I've fallen asleep waiting for you to come back from the Christmas party. Sorry, but I have terrible jetlag since I only had an hour-long layover in California. It was the best that Mycroft could do on Christmas Eve, even when I asked him to book the flight two weeks ago. _

_The others picked me up at Heathrow, so they know I'm back. Mike Stamford was there, too, letting me know that I can start work again after New Year's. Of course they invited me to the party, but when they told me you were coming, I declined. Since you wanted to make your goodbye to me alone last June, I'm sure you would have wanted this to be in private, as well. So they helped me back to my flat, where I dropped off the rest of my luggage, and Mycroft brought me here right after you left for the Watsons' house._

_I'm sorry I didn't tell you my decision sooner, but I wanted to tell you in person (at least you can see me while you read this). Thanks to you, I was able to make this decision with all of the information I needed. I can't wait to see you again, Sherlock. I've missed you so much._

_Yours in every way,_

_Molly_

Sherlock softly gasped when a tear fell from his eye onto the page, and he quickly swiped it away so it wouldn't make a smudge. Not on this precious letter that he would treasure. He folded it again and put it in his pocket as he looked back down at the sleeping Molly.

"_My Molly…_"

His heart now rejoicing, Sherlock immediately made a plan of action. He reached over Molly and opened the door to 221B fully. Then he crouched down and tenderly scooped up his pathologist. She didn't wake up, but gave a soft moan and snuggled into his chest. Another tear fell, this time into her hair, and kissed the crown of her head as gently as a butterfly. With his foot, Sherlock shoved the overnight duffel bag inside his flat. Then he carried his Molly, The One, inside, and softly shut the door.

They had finally come home.

* * *

_Just to play the game and to pursue life,_

_Just to share its pleasures and belong…_


End file.
